


Perplexing

by Lafayette1777



Series: Always a Rose [1]
Category: Millennium Trilogy - Stieg Larsson
Genre: F/M, Gen, Him wondering about her afterwards, Jonasson: the doctor that took the bullet out of her brain in Hornet's Nest, Lisbeth being unpredictable, Mikael and Monica getting married, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Anders Jonasson didn't know what to make of her. But really, who could honestly say they understood Lisbeth Salander?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Lisbeth and Anders Jonasson, a fairly minor character who I really liked. They seemed to have a good connection. I wanted to see what it'd be like if Lisbeth went after such a stable guy. Three chapters.  
> If you're reading this, please review!  
> Originally posted on ff.net, 3/29/2012.

Involving Lisbeth Salander, Dr. Anders Jonasson was as perplexed as anyone.

She had left Sahlgrenska hospital in June. She was trialed in July for sixteen separate offenses, but by some miracle was acquitted. Anders watched the news coverage for a week after the trial ended.

Then she dropped off the map. Her lawyer, Annika Giannini, couldn't even find her. Rumor was she'd gone abroad. TV and newspapers promptly forgot about her, seeing as they couldn't call her a Lesbian Satanist anymore.

Anders still thought about her. He kept on at Sahlgrenska, still enduring the graveyard shift. It was never quite as exciting as that night in April, when he got to perform brain surgery on a patient that actually fully recovered, and the resulting drama. From Zalachenko getting blown away (which surprised the shit out of Anders), to telling Peter Teleborian to get lost for a woman he didn't know at all, to smuggling in PDA under the nose of an armed security guard.

She was the most interesting patient he ever had. He sometimes wondered if they could have been friends, if they'd had more time.

In February, he picked up his mobile and saw he had two missed calls, both made during his shift, around three in the morning. He didn't recognize the number, and whoever it was hadn't left a message.

He rubbed his eyes, slipped his phone into his pants pocket, and hoped that he wouldn't fall asleep while biking home.

He sleep walked up the stairs, missing the key hole twice before he managed to get his apartment door open. He resisted the urge to fall into bed, but being the neat guy he was, hung up his coat in the hallway first.

Anders flicked on the overhead light, and then nearly jumped out of his skin.

Sitting at his kitchen table was a tried looking Lisbeth Salander.

“Jesus Christ!” He put a hand over his rapidly beating heart. “Holy shit...”

Her hair was still short, since it had been mostly shaved off for brain surgery. She loose black linen pants and a white button up shirt. Her black eyes had dark circles ringing them. She was smoking a cigarette.

“Sorry.” She said. Anders didn't think she sounded particularly sorry.

Stunned, his tongue deserted him. He stared at her.

“I tried to call.” She snubbed out her cigarette. “You didn't pick up.”

Somehow she had found his mobile number, and then his address. He had some inkling that she was good computers (why else would Mikael Blomkvist have wanted him to smuggle in a Palm Tungsten T3?), but how good, he didn't know. He wasn't an idiot.

“I was working.” He managed to choke out. “Sorry.”

She rose from her perch on the edge of the seat. Sometimes he forgot just how tiny she was. If he didn't know her, and someone described her personality to him, he'd think she was six feet tall and 150 lbs. She had, after all, beaten the shit out of Magge Lundin and Sonny Nieminen, the leaders of the biker gang Svavelsjo MC. The was 4'11” and couldn't have been over 90 lbs. 

He stared at her as she approached him soundlessly.

He had to admit, he was happy to see she was okay. She had disappeared for so long, he had hoped she hadn't been killed or injured. But here she was, completely healthy, in his kitchen at four in the morning.

“What are you doing here?” He says, when she's a foot away from him.

She grins lopsidedly at him. What a funny expression.

Without warning she steps forward and presses her lips to his. He's caught off guard for a moment, and doesn't reciprocate, but then recovers. He's ok with this.

m m m

Mikael Blomkvist was half asleep.

His TV was on, the news blaring. It was six in the morning. Monica Figuerola was napping on his couch, her feet in his lap. Her blonde hair was mussed, and she wore very little clothing.

He had talked to Salander three days ago. She had awkwardly asked for his advice on how to get reporters to leave her alone. Most still thought she lived on Lundagatan, though she spent all her time at Fiskargatan 9. But if she went out it was almost a guarantee that some journalist would recognize her and try to rope her into a interview. Blomkvist had told her she was doing the right thing—just ignoring them until they got bored.

It was in this way that he'd found out she had returned to her job at Milton Security, once again doing the research that she found interesting, given to her by Dragan Armansky. 

They had a tentative friendship. It was not warm or smiley (and certainly not romantic), but they respected and trusted eachother, which was all that Blomkvist could ask for. 

m m m

Anders Jonasson was awake, staring at the ceiling.

Lisbeth Salander was asleep on her stomach next to him, splayed out in his bed. She was a messy sleeper, he had learned.

It was the seventh time this had happened.

Sometimes she'd call, sometimes she'd just show up at his apartment in Goteborg. He didn't have any idea what was going on, but he was realizing he definitely didn't have a problem with it.

That was the thing—she didn't just show up for sex. She'd stay for the rest of that day, until his shift started at eight in the evening. He liked her company, even though she was strange.

He didn't know if this counted a relationship. He knew he wasn't seeing other people—it wasn't his style to try to get with as many women as possible—but he was afraid to ask her. Coaxing information out of her was a delicate process. Go to far and she'd shut her mouth for the rest of the night. But they had some measure of trust. After all, he had, literally, seen inside her head. And held Teleborian and the police at bay. And bended the law to get her her PDA.

He just enjoyed it while he could. Held onto the thread of hope that they were exclusive. But he doubted that was Lisbeth's style.

m m m

“Do you ever sleep?” He asked her.

She sat at her desk, laptop open, the bright screen reflected in her black eyes. 

“No.” She said, completely deadpan. It was four thirty in the morning. She was on the CNN international news site, half watching a pod cast playing in the left hand corner of the page.

Anders was lying in her bed at Fiskargatan 9. He had the weekend off, and had finally convinced her to let him come see her in Stockholm rather than her driving out to Goteborg.

Her apartment was impressive. And he liked the name on the plate on her door—V. Kulla. He got the Astrid Lindgren reference immediately. He had looked around and almost laughed at the enormity of the apartment, and how only three rooms were furnished.

It was Sunday morning now. He'd have to leave by noon.

“Come here.” He said, after watching her for a moment.

She looked at him with something that might have been endearment, and then crawled back under the covers and into his arms. 

m m m

Lisbeth was twenty seven years old. Anders was thirty three, in March. He was good doctor, but he knew she was infinitely smarter than him on any subject she chose to apply herself to. It was because of this that Anders knew better than to try to control Lisbeth Salander in anyway. She was very much her own woman.

They were at his apartment when her mobile rang. It was Mikael Blomkvist, with some shred of news that she had missed. She immediately booted up her computer and checked the business headline of a Swedish news network.

_The CEO of a Swiss clothes manufacturer was arrested today, for alleged arms dealings with with a local gang. One of the major investors, British lawyer Jeremy MacMillan, is currently under investigation._

“Shit.” Salander muttered. MacMillan had a practice in Gibraltar, and she had enlisted his services when she needed someone to handle the huge sum of money she had stolen from Hans-Erik Wennerström several years before. She gave him freedom to invest where he thought wise, and paid him a handsome salary, and in return he monitored and handled the finances of Wasp Enterprises. That decision was shaping up to be a mistake.

She snatched up her mobile, and bought a plane ticket to Malaga, where she would connect to Gibraltar. The flight left in four hours.

She put on easy, inconspicuous clothes, and shoes she would walk in. She packed a shoulder bag with the necessities that should hold her about a week. She already had a plan unfolding in her mind, and with luck everything would be taken care of soon. She'd have to reassess the pros and cons of working with MacMillan, though.

Anders had been silent all this time, after she'd cryptically explained what she was going off to do. He knew her finances may not be legally acquired, but also knew she was clever enough to cover her tracks. If this is what she had to do, then he sure as hell was not gonna hold her back.

Just as she was heading out the door, he grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her into a hug before she could kick him in the head. There was an awkward moment before she lightly returned the gesture.

“Be safe.” He told her.

Not surprisingly, she didn't answer.

m m m

“Scissors.” Jonasson's request was met swiftly by a nurse.

He gracefully cut the end of the string, the neat line of stitches complete.

The patient was a man, about thirty five, who had been stabbed in a bar early in the morning. Lucky for him, no vital organs had been punctured, and wound had been simply a matter of sewing the skin back together. They'd release the guy in a few hours, once he'd sobered up.

Jonasson checked around, and found no patients in need of his help. He headed toward the staff room, made himself some coffee, and then settled in on one of the couches to check the news on his mobile, as he did roughly ever hour he could.

It was his way of easing any anxiety surrounding Lisbeth's impromptu trip to Gibraltar. If her funds had been discovered, it would have been front page news. If Jeremy MacMillan had turned up dead, it would have been front page news. If Lisbeth Salander had turned up dead, it would have been front page news. The media was all too eager to start writing about her again.

He checked the major news affiliates thoroughly, but found nothing with the name Salander mentioned, except for a book listing that included Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, and Henry Cortez's The Section. It gave a brief synopsis of the book, which Anders had already read.

He let out his breath, and took a swig of his coffee.

m m m

Mikael Blomkvist wandered home from the Millennium offices around seven in the evening.

Bellmansgatan was quiet and peaceful, and the cool breeze smelled fresh. He took a moment to relish it before stepping into his shared apartment.

Monica Figuerola was in her running gear, and heading out just as he was coming in. She kissed him quickly before jogging out onto the street.

He slung his bag down on the kitchen table, and yanked out his laptop before heading over to the desk in the corner. His home page was a news cite, and the headline made him smile.

Jeremy MacMillan charges dismissed.

And then, as a sub heading:

Lawyer has documentation proving he had no knowledge of company's criminal dealings.

Lisbeth Salander knew how to handle a situation. She was no doubt on her way back to Sweden.

He opened a new word document, and named it _To Sally_. Then he started typing.

_Lisbeth-_

_I'm going to marry Monica. I never thought I'd want to get married again, but I'm sure this time. I've ended the affair with Erika. I know we're not involved anymore, and I don't expect us to be, but I thought you should be the first to know._

_Sincerely,_

_Kalle Blomkvist._

He hoped she'd check her copy of his hard drive soon. He reached inside his desk drawer, and pulled out the small velvet box.

A few minutes later, Monica returned home, and Blomkvist was waiting for her.

 

m m m 

Lisbeth was content.

As it happened, matters in Gibraltar were an easy fix. Some hacking and false documents and the peace was restored. MacMillan actually hadn't known the company he was investing in was involved in criminal activity. One dumb ass decision was all.

She gave him a very stern warning. This could not happen again. And if it did, he'd wish he'd never been born. She'd make sure of it. They were technically business partners in Wasp Enterprises, and bad decisions could not be tolerated. 

But the crisis was averted, and she took a flight back to Sweden as soon as the articles had come out claiming MacMillan's innocence. 

At home at Fiskargatan 9, she undressed and slept for a full twenty four hours straight. She woke a two in the afternoon, and headed down to the nearby convenience store to buy bread, milk, cheese, cigarettes, and Billy's Pan Pizza. Back upstairs, she flicked on her laptop.

Instead of checking her email, something made her stop. She clicked instead on the folder marked Asphyxia, and down to the file marked MikBlom. She opened his desktop, and immediately saw the centrally placed document entitled .

Her eyes widened as she read it.

Blomkvist and Figuerola. 

Blomkvist, married?

What kind of parallel universe had she fallen into?

Hmm.

She felt nothing. No regret. No longing. She felt safe enough to say that she was over him. What a relief. She'd spent far too long wishing she could be with him. 

Married? Whoa.

Not many friends of hers got married. She knew too many douche bags. 

m m m

Anders was ambling home from Konsum when his mobile rang.

He fumbled around for a moment, switching the bags from hand to hand as he searched for his phone. He was in scrubs, but these days there was rarely a time when he wasn't. 

He answered it quickly, not bothering to look at the Caller ID.

“Jonasson.” He greeted.

“It's Lisbeth.”

“Oh...hi. I saw the papers.”

“Yeah, I'm back in Sweden now. Everything's sorted out.”

“That's good.”

“Are you working this weekend?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Thirty-six hour shift.”

“When do you get off?”

“Sunday evening.”

“I'll meet you at your apartment.”

m m m

Lisbeth had breakfast made for her, which was an unusual occurrence.

She was halfway through her fried egg when she felt Anders' tired eyes on her. She looked up with an eyebrow raised.

“Something's on your mind.”

She stared at him blankly.

“You don't have to tell me. I was just observing.”

She bit her lip, and broke eye contact.

Anders gave up and returned to his food.

“Mikael Blomkvist is getting married.” She said after a while.

“Really?” Interest sparked in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“And you're still in love with him?” His voice was quieter.

She gave him a sharp look. “No.”

“But it bothers you.”

“No, it doesn't. I'm happy for them.” It was the truth, but she knew it sounded like a lie.

“Alright.”

Silence.

“I'm serious.” She said.

“About what?”

“I don't love him.”

“I know.”

He reached gently across the table, and took her hand with a smile. She did not recoil. Instead, she smiled back crookedly.


	2. Breathless

“You know that's going to kill you, right?”

“I hate having sex with doctors.” She narrowed her black eyes at him, and he had no idea if she was joking or not. She took another long drag from her cigarette, turning back to the panoramic window. 

It didn't matter how often Anders Jonasson visited Fiskargatan 9, it's scenery still managed to take his breath away. They sat in her window seat, scantily clad, in some early hour of the morning. 

It didn't matter how many nights he spent with Lisbeth Salander, she still managed to take his breath away, too. 

He sighed. “Hand it over.”

She passed him the cigarette, grinning crookedly. “I'm a bad influence on you.”

“Of course.”

“You want pizza?” She asked, getting to her feet. She wore only a bra and panties as she headed in the direction of her massive kitchen. 

“Sure.” He searched around for his jeans and a shirt before following her. 

He arrived in the other room to find her retrieving a pizza from the microwave. They shared it in the darkness, neither needing to speak. 

“Lisbeth.” He said after a moment. 

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“I really like you.”

She gave him a vaguely horrified look. 

Lisbeth finished her pizza and left the room impassively. He stayed a while longer, not sure if he regretted his words or not. He did like her a lot—since their unusual beginnings the odd woman had grown on him. She may have been near impossible to read, and not one for emotion, but she was strong and capable and seemed to like him enough to have some kind of strange, half baked relationship with him, that involved sex and spending long hours together before and afterward. 

After a few minutes, he tossed the microwavable package in the garbage and wandered back to the bedroom. He found her asleep, her slight form naked under the silk sheets. He undressed and crawled in next to her, sliding an arm around her. She didn't stir. 

He couldn't help but wonder what the logical progression of this relationship was. He'd been with her for nearly a year, since her life had returned to some kind of normalcy—by which he meant she was no longer a wanted criminal. She was still insanely rich, anti social, and interesting as ever.

Despite her interest, he knew his mother would not approve. When he came home for holiday dinners, he still told everyone he was single. Lisbeth didn't care. He didn't see her as the familial type. And his family would be appalled at his choice of women for sure. You're dating that Lisbeth Salander? The lesbian satanist murderer woman?

He was in his early thirties. He supposed he had time to wait, and see what Lisbeth's intentions were. If she had it worked out at all. But he was pretty sure he wanted a family some day, and would be happy to have it with Lisbeth, assuming she was on board. But he had to admit that seemed unlikely. 

He tried not to think about the future, and drifted to sleep.

m m m

In the morning, he showered and put on fresh clothes.

She awoke to to him packing his overnight bag, in preparation to leave. She looked at him for a moment. “Stay for breakfast.”

“Can't.” He replied simply. “Have to get back to Sahlgrenska for my shift.”

She didn't argue, just dressed in her usual simple style and met him at the door. “I'll meet in you in Goteborg next weekend.”

“Good.” He said, with a soft smile. He turned to cross the threshold. 

“Anders.” She called to him with his first name. He turned immediately. 

“I really like you too.”

It was quite possibly the most unexpected answer he could think of, but he kept his head and immediately leaned down to kiss her. She didn't shy away, but met him on her tiptoes. 

Naturally, he was late for work that day.


	3. Merriment

“I got mail.” Were the first words out of her mouth when he opened his door to her.

“That's normal.” He replied, letting her in to his Goteborg apartment. 

She handed him an envelope, which he found was addressed to one Ms. Lisbeth Salander. The return address was the Blomvkist/Figuerola residence at Bellmansgatan. He didn't have to peer inside to know what it was, but he looked in anyway. 

It was an expensive invitation, all elegance and fancy lettering. He looked at the venue—an expensive garden outside of Stockholm. The date said it was this weekend.

“Something tells me you didn't just get this.” 

She didn't answer.

“Can I be your plus one?”

She nodded slowly. 

He gave her a look. “This doesn't bother you, does it? Those two getting married. I mean, you've known about it for months.”

She did not look pleased with his insinuation. “I am not in love Mikael Blomvkist. Doesn't matter how many times you ask.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I believe you. You just don't look happy.”

“I don't like parties.”

He laughed. “I think there's a possibility for fun in this. If it took them this long to plan it, it's probably pretty intense. And a lot of people will be there, I'm sure, cause he's kind of a celebrity.”

“Great,” she muttered. “A bunch of journalists that won't leave me alone, plus a bunch of regular people who won't come in ten feet of me.”

“Since when do you care about what people think of you?” Jonasson countered.

“Good point.” She got to her feet. “Ceremony's at twelve on saturday. Rent a suit and I'll pick you up.”

She shed her shirt and wandered in the direction of his bedroom, leaving him only a little offended that she thought he didn't own a suit. 

m m m

She wore a black dress that hung loosely over her tiny frame, and a pair of sandals in the same color. He assumed the dress was sleeveless, but he had know idea, as she was wearing a beat up black leather jacket over it. He thought she might have toned down her black eyeliner for the event, but the darkness of her eyes seemed to make up for the slight lack of make-up. 

“Nice suit.” She commented, sarcasm unclear. 

“Nice dress.” He kissed her on the cheek.

She gave him a look. “Let's go.” 

They climbed into her sedan, and he watched her crane her head above the steering wheel, undeterred by her height. 

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as they drove out of the city. She was silent, her lips a thin, tense line. Lisbeth's way of worrying, he figured. The sky was gray, unfortunately for the outdoor wedding. But with some luck, maybe they could move to the indoor reception before the rain fell. 

Luck was never on Salander's side. 

“It's raining,” she remarked, when the droplets began to patter on her windshield.

“I don't think the worst of it will come down for some time,” Anders replied with a grin.

“Hilarious.”

He turned his full scale smile in her direction, and after a moment her gloomy facade crumbled and she gave him a small smile in return. Salander's smiles were so rare, he'd learned to cherish them, to let the warmth spread through his chest upon her expression. 

They arrived at the designated botanical garden outside of Stockholm, and hurried through the rain toward a hastily erected tent. The grass was a clear green, accentuated by the wet weather, standing in contrast to the yellow sand sidewalks winding through the flower beds, the exotic trees and small, lily pad laden ponds. They were half an hour early, and the wedding was already huge. The bride and groom seemed slightly overwhelmed by the crowd, a look of quiet apology on their faces, as if the rain was somehow their fault. 

Jonasson discreetly reached for Salander's hand, giving it a squeeze as they joined the crowd searching for seats under the too-small tent. They were in the second row, with seats marked Lisbeth Salander and directly to her right, Guest. It seemed impersonal, in light of the Salander and Blomvkist's previous relations, but he guessed that with big weddings you can only do so much. He was exceptionally aware of the stares directed at Lisbeth, as it was still not so long ago that she'd been Sweden's most wanted. 

There was none of the cliched tradition of the bride walking down the aisle, of the veil being lifted to reveal her angelic face. Instead, Figuerola wore a white sundress, hugging tight to her figure, standing hand in hand with Blomvkist. They were married quickly and sweetly, a kiss sealing the deal. It's just the right kind of ceremony, because he was fairly sure no one thought at any point during it, oh please God, just make it end.

Except maybe Salander, and he felt stupid for not having any kind of read on her, as usual. 

Afterward, the newly married couple led the charge to the indoor reception area. They entered the one room building, all honey golden wood and high ceilings. Big windows looked out on the gardens, and it was large enough to manage tables and a dance floor. 

Blomvkist caught Salander's eye before she took a seat next to Jonasson at their marked table. The two exchanged the most inconspicuous of nods, with Anders as the only onlooker. It's an admittance, a white flag, a sign of peace and finality. They were done with each other, finally. 

m m m

The dance floor was alive with colors as midnight approached, the expensive and eye catching dresses twirling across the wood paneled floor. Few people stayed at their tables after the meal; Jonasson and Salander were among those who stayed. 

The Blomvkists were on the floor, too, but they had to stop every few seconds to answer a question or thank yet another well-wisher from the massive party.

Salander watched the party-goers with neutral black eyes. After a while of just gazing at her, Jonasson spoke up.

“We should dance,” he proclaimed.

She looked at him like he'd just suggested they go crucify the prime minister. 

“I'm serious,” he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Fuck--” she paused in tell him exactly where to go, and looked thoughtful, her eyes narrowing. She stood. “Okay.”

His jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

She smiled a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “You look cute in your suit,” she deadpanned. 

“Fair enough,” and he followed her to the dance floor. 

They moved clumsily among the others for a few moments before deciding that maybe it wasn't such a good idea in the first place. 

It was in the wee hours of the morning, while drunken guests stumbled about and the dancing had lulled to a few swirling couples, and Salander and Jonasson had slunk away to a bench where she had her feet up on his lap. Every time he looked at her he began to giggle incessantly, the alcohol in his blood making him ignore the fact that in a few hours he would be feeling like shit. 

Salander met his eyes as he was wracked with laughter again. She seemed, to no one's surprise, to be handling her liquor better. “What the fuck are you laughing about?”

He shook his head, tears in his eyes. “I haven't the slightest idea.”

“You should move in with me,” she said, without pause. She had her fingers pressed to her thin lips, as if silently wishing for a cigarette to fall through a wormhole and appear in her waiting hands.

He snapped his head up, and for a moment his drunken haze cleared. “What?”

“You heard me.”

His eyebrows just about hit the ceiling. She was just full of surprises tonight. 

“Well?”

His first thought was, am I dreaming? And then, whoa, I am really wasted.

Salander was looking at him expectantly.

It would take some adjustment, and he'd have to get a new job, but he was thinking fast in this moment of clarity and making up his mind was easy. He felt this distinct articulateness wearing away and hurried to move his lips. His words came out far more lucid than his thoughts, and in his intoxicated state he was almost a little proud of himself for the eloquence of it. “I'd be honored.”

She smiled, and it was one of those moments that he'd definitely never forget.


End file.
